Archive for the ‘Worstward Ho’ Category

Worstward Ho (4)

Por Manolo

All of old. Nothing else ever. Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.

The meaning of the sentences in this paragraph is relatively transparent, and I wouldn’t like to dedicate much room to speculating about what the narrator really wants to say. I won’t fall into that trap. In any event, it seems as if the narrator has done this before (whatever it is that he is doing; the body and the place to start with). Everything is now as it has always been, of old.
This paragraph represents, then, a certain regression as compared to paragraph 3. The narrator starts with his job, says a body and a place, and all of a sudden tedium invades him: I’ve done these things before; I haven’t failed at anything else, but only because I haven’t tried anything else. Discouragement (luckily?) passes swiftly: Never mind, I have to keep on doing them.
So, we have here again the “On” that opens the book: more of the same stuff must be done. We have to try again, and fail again.
The oft-quoted “Try again. Fail again. Fail better” is, maybe, another example of substitution. Try for Fail and, in consequence, Fail better where we would conventionally expect Try better. (The complete sequence would be, then, Try again. Fail again. Try better. Fail better).
The worstward journey: the narrator will try better but, given that trying is failing, trying better is identical to failing better. That is, identical to failing more completely and more perfectly.

Substitutions:

Fail for Try.


A webpage for my Worstward Ho commentary

Por Manolo

Just that: I have created a webpage to put all commentaries together as I finish them. I’m afraid it will be just in English for the moment. It’s a nightmare to put all the Spanish accents in html, and I can’t find a rtf to html converter that does not fill the text with junk code. If anybody knows the (Linux) program I need, please tell me.


Worstward Ho (3)

Por Manolo

Párrafo 3

Say a body. Where none. No mind. Where none. That at least. A place. Where none. For the body. To be in. Move in. Out of. Back into. No. No out. No back. Only in. Stay in. On in. Still.

Commentary:

After having introduced the task in paragraphs 1 and 2 (what is there to be done? More has to be said, somehow, till there is no way, and every saying is ill-saying), the narrator starts effectively to fulfill it in this paragraph 3.
The first thing that is said is a body. Again, maybe more clearly that in the two preceding paragraphs, a meaningful ungrammaticality: obviously, a body is not one of the things that can be said. Without entering in the philosophical niceties, it will at least be clear that the things that can be said, paradigmatically, are those to which we refer in sentences such as “Sam Beckett says that…”. Whatever it is that the phrase that substitutes the suspensive points refers to, it will surely not be a body.
In philosophy of language it is common to call the things we say propositions. Well, even those philosophers who think that a proposition may literally include some concrete entities among its constituents (philosophers, e.g., that believe that the very Sam Beckett is a part of what we say when we say “Sam Beckett was a writer or something”), even they think that something that doesn’t exists can never be a part of a proposition (thus, Santa Claus cannot be a part of what we say when we say “I was obsessed about Santa Claus as a child” for the simple reason that Santa does not exist). This is simply to stress the point that a body cannot be something that is said, and a body that doesn’t exist cannot even be part of what is said.
Evidently, with this ungrammatical construction the narrator is alluding to creation: saying a body will be, probably, to achieve something similar to the incarnated word that John’s gospel talks about; a body is said where there is none so that there is one from then on.
This, it seems to me, is the most natural interpretation of the first sentence of the paragraph. The difficulties we would face were we to say the same in a grammatically correct way can be seen, again, by attending to Greenlaw’s brilliant common English paraphrasis. There, the first sentence is parsed as “I’ll say there’s a body (where there isn’t one)”. In this reading, the narrator is expressing his intention to lie. There is no body, but he will say there is. That can’t be right.
According to the rest of Greenlaw’s paraphrasis of the paragraph, the narrator then informs us that he will say a truth: that there is no mind where, in fact, there is none. Thus, then, Greenlaw’s interpretation of “that at least” as “that at least is true”. But it’s equally plausible -and more natural, if I’m not wrong- to read the narrator as saying that he won’t bother to create a mind and that, given that there is none, that at least won’t be a problem. By all means, this is as arbitrary as any other way to complete what the narrator leaves unspoken, but it’s at least consistent with the intuitively attractive option according to which we are being told about a process of creation.

Second and last of the creations in this paragraph: a place is said for the body to be in. It is curious that the narrator says the body first and then the place the body is in. Hasn’t the narrator, or Beckett, noticed that if there is a body there is, at least, also the space it occupies? It is better not to worry too much over these kind of questions. This is literature; it doesn’t have to be metaphysically flawless, or a prodigy of consistency, or anything.

Odds and ends. In this paragraph the narrator corrects himself again: he first says that the place is for the body to move in and out; but rather not, no moving in and out. The body will stay still in its place.

Finally, the ambiguity of “still”: it may mean “unmoving” (it refers to the body, then) or “yet” (allowing the substitution of “on in” for “still in”). Or both.

Some things have started to exist. We will keep track of them too.

What there is:

A body.
A place.


Worstward Ho (2)

Por Manolo

Paragraph 2

Say for be said. Missaid. From now say for be missaid.

[In the e-text there is a typo in the last sentence]

Commentary:

There you have it, an explicit endorsement of the Substitution Principle, at least for this very case. As I have already said, I believe SP regiments the narrator’s language throughout the book, if in a tacit fashion.
In fact, apart from this explicit substitution, SP is used yet again to move from said to missaid. If we wished, we would be entitled to embed this new substitution in paragraph 1 and conclude “Be missaid till nohow on”. I hope that the logic behind this peculiar syntax starts to show, even if at first sight it may appear simply whimsical.
By the way, SP itself flows naturally from the habit that the narrator has (we will see it repeated time and again) to correct himself: I’ll say “say” instead of “be said”. No, wait, “missaid”. From now on I’ll say “say” instead of “be missaid”. The narrator is never completely sure that he says what he wants to say, and there is always room for taking it back.

We assist in this paragraph to the beginning of the worstward journey: everything that will be said will be ill said, and we are about to see, in the following paragraph, why ill saying is going worstward.

Again -as in nohow- the narrator shows his predilection for including the modifiers in the very modified word. Thus, missaid instead of the more natural ill said or wrongly said, maybe because such construction allow a more comfortable use of SP, word by word. Missaid appears in a number of dictionaries (not in mine) but it is not a common word in the least.

Substitutions:

Said by Missaid.

Monstruous Constructions:

Missaid (comes from said).


Worstward Ho (1)

Por Manolo

Worstward Ho
by Samuel Beckett

Paragraph 1

On. Say on. Be said on. Somehow on. Till nohow on. Said nohow on.

Commentary:

The book starts in medias res; we can assume that the narrator has been speaking for a while, the first thing we read being an exhortation to go on. It is unclear whether the exhortation comes from the narrator to himself (“I’ll say on”, as in Greenlaw’s paraphrasis) or to some interlocutor. Indeed, “say on” is grammatically correct only when read as an imperative, but this is not terribly important: throughout Worstward Ho grammaticality will be abused whenever necessary.
The fact that right after this sentence he moves on to the passive voice (“be said on”) is maybe evidence that the narrator himself is worried about this ambiguity. Maybe he is suggesting something like this: it is unclear whether it is me or you who must say more but, in any event, more must be said.
This is already a first example of, so to say, necessary ungrammaticality. I dare say -although a native English speaker would come in handy here- that “say on” has a grammatically correct reading, analogous to “go on”, meaning “keep on saying”. I propose, thus, that this first ungrammaticality has been generated in the following way:

1st step: On. There must be more of something.
2nd step: Say on. It is saying the something there must be more of. This is already dubiously grammatical, but it is, at least, a natural saturation of the adverb “on”: something must “on”, well, it is “say” that must “on”.
3rd step: But who has to say more? Me, you? The narrator won’t commit himself to any of these options, so he transforms “say” in “be said”. He does that, nevertheless, without paying attention to the role that “say” was playing in relation with “on”. Stricto sensu, “be said” cannot fulfill this grammatical role; but there is no grammatical way -at least no way that doesn’t involve a long circumlocution- to say what the narrator wishes to say. So, unashamedly,
4th step: Be said on.

Proof of how difficult would be to say this in a economical yet grammatical way is Greenlaw’s paraphrasis:

Say on is paraphrased by Greenlaw as I’ll say on.
Be said on is paraphrased as Let “on” be said.

What in the first paraphrase was an adverb modifying the verb “say” (I’ll say on), turns, in the second one, into that what is said (Let “on” be said). But this can’t be right. It is not that the narrator exhorts (someone else, himself) to utter the word “on”; he exhorts to say on (on to be said). And if he has to violate syntax in order to do so, so be it.

The narrator, thus, advocates for speaking on, whatever way -”somehow on”- until there is no way to keep on speaking: “till nohow on”.
This is the first example of a monstruous construction (so to call it): “somehow” is perfect English and comes, obviously, from “some how”. The narrator advocates for speaking on while there is a way to do it; that is, logically, until there is no way to do it. He must seek for hows, one, another how until there are no hows left. We will have some how until we have no how. Somehow happens exactly till nohow.
In logical terms, there is some how if and only if it is not true that there is no how. A slightly silly aside: we are inferring here ¬∀xAx from ∃xAx. This transition is unwarranted intuitionistically. We can, then, say that the narrator believes that the fact that there is some how (to say) or not is an objective fact.
Another aside: “nohow” still appears in the dictionary (I’m using the Concise Oxford Dictionary). Apparently, it is used informally, in American English, to reinforce a negative. Something like “no way!”. I believe that it is more natural to have it deriving from “somehow” through the process that I have just reconstructed than supposing that the narrators has independently chosen to use this americanism to speak about the necessity to go on. Even more when this is seen against the background of the processes of adverbial modification that are staged in ulterior paragraphs.

Now comes the second, beautiful example of ungrammaticality. We had “be said on” and now we read “somehow on”. This, in the way of understading syntax that, apparently, the narrator has (or so has the transition from “say on” to “be said on” made us think) must be understood as an ellipsis of “be said somehow on”. Therefore, “till nohow on” is an ellipsis of “be said till nohow on” and, indeed, another way to say this is “said nohow on”, which happens to be the last sentence in the paragraph. How simple. How cool.

It could be said (but this a very tentative hypothesis that must be validated as we go on), that the narrator ignores to a certain extent the grammatical functions of the expressions he uses and accepts, instead, the following principle:

(Substitution Principle): If two expressions A and B are intersubstitutable, two expressions F(A) and F(B) that only differ in that every token of A in the former is substituted by a token of B in the later are equally intersubstitutable

In this paragraph we have seen two examples of this:

1.From “say on” to “be said on”. Substitution of “say” by “be said”.
2.From “somehow on” to “till nohow on”. Substitution of “somehow” by “till nohow”.

This is more or less it. I don’t foresee that all paragraphs will need an equally long commentary, but this had to, being the first. I summarise now the hypotheses that we have started to advance and which should be corroborated in subsequent commentaries:

1.The narrator obeys what I have dubbed the Substitution Principle [SP].
2.Adverbial monstruosity is, also, an example of the use of SP at word-scale

And a list of things to which it’s maybe worth to have a quick reference:

Substitutions:

Say by Be said.
Somehow by Till nohow.

Monstruous Constructions:

Nohow (comes from somehow)


Rumbo a Peor

Por Manolo

Hoy he estado leyendo Worstward Ho de Samuel Beckett (Rumbo a Peor en la traducción editada por Lumen). Por si a alguien le interesa, hay una versión electrónica que parece útil: después de cada párrafo del texto original (en negrita) un tal Colin Greenlaw ha añadido una especie de glosa en inglés corriente.

Me gusta mucho, pero es que yo soy fan.

Si alguna vez tengo tiempo y sé más, me gustaría escribir sobre estas obras de Beckett. Escribir en términos normales, sin psicoanalís (parece mentira: un programa de investigación absolutamente desacreditado y el partido que le sacan los de la literary theory) ni pensamiento paradójico del tipo “¿Creías que todos los F eran G? Pues bien al contrario, alucina: ¡ningún F es G!” (más sobre el pensamiento paradójico próximamente). Escribir, pues, sobre lo que pasa en el texto que sea (sí: ¡la trama!) y para qué ha servido el esfuerzo de Beckett al escribirlo. Qué novedades hay respecto a lo que se haya dicho antes por cualquiera, o después. Qué hay que empezar a pensar a partir de ahí, si algo en absoluto. Conclusiones, esto es, aun si tentativas. con las que uno pueda estar en acuerdo o en desacuerdo.
Es decir, rescatarlo del marasmo de interpretaciones inevaluables o ya directamente ininteligibles. Como en todo, aquello que no es comprensible en Beckett es estocástico. No hay término medio; no existen las ininteligibilidades informativas.
Exagero, pero no mucho.

Voy a empezar con Worstward Ho, mira tú:

La cosa arranca digamos, de cero.

Say a body. Where none. No mind. Where none. That at least. A place. Where none.

Un cuerpo donde no había ninguno y un lugar donde había nada. Beckett los dice -o nos pide a nosotros que los digamos- y ahí están. No es la primera vez que se toma el trabajo de comenzar el trabajo desde el principio: la creación ex-nihilo. Algo parecido hay en El Innombrable y Cómo Es. Otro día los saco de la estantería y os lo muestro.

Y, una vez se ha empezado, ¿qué hay que hacer?

Try again. Fail again. Fail better.

Pues ya se ve: hay que fracasar mejor. Todo el libro es exactamente eso, un rumbo a peor (a mejor fracasar). Esto no quiere decir gran cosa, pero en todo caso es de lo que se trata. Sea lo que fuere eso, hay que fracasar mejor. De ahí la preocupación del narrador por si realmente se está cumpliendo con el programa, y cómo se cumple con el programa.

Fail again. Better again. Or better worse.

Es que, empezando por ahí, ni siquiera está claro cómo se dice: ¿Fallar mejor? ¿O mejor peor? Un lío.

En todo caso, ya que hay un cuerpo y un sitio, hay que poner al cuerpo de pie; por hacer algo. Esto no está claro que sea ir precisamente a peor, y el narrador mismo se extraña una vez dicho.

It stands. What? Yes.

“Se levanta. ¿Qué? Sí.”. Me gustaría saber si la pregunta le llega de fuera o es él mismo el que se la formula; pero claro, esas cosas no hay manera de saberlas. Mejor dicho: no hay cuestion de hecho sobre quién formula la pregunta. Pero en fin, por si sirve de algo, en Yo No (una obra de teatro) la protagonista también interrumpe su monólogo varias veces para responder a una u otra preguntas (”¿Qué? ¿Quién? ¡No! ¡Ella!”) que no oímos. Yo No está filmado, así que el hecho de que no haya ninguna otra voz es evidencia de que la pregunta se le ocurre a la misma persona que monologa, ¿no? No creo que contra esta evidencia se pueda aducir que, de tratarse de una pregunta de la misma persona, ella la introduciría en el monólogo de manera más natural, “Me parece que no está del todo claro a quién me estoy refiriendo. Desde luego, no a, sino a ella“. No se puede aducir porque precisamente la protagonista de Yo No está intentando por todos los medios no decir “Yo”, igual que el narrador de Rumbo a Peor intenta por todos los medios ir a peor.

Pero, como digo, aparte de estas débiles evidencias, nada parece poder decidir quién formula la pregunta. Diré solamente que a mí me parece que la pregunta viene del narrador mismo. Tengo que pensar mucho más sobre todo esto: en Rumbo a Peor -como se ha visto ya y se verá más según avancemos en el texto- los objetos que pueblan ese vacío parecen surgir de lo que dice el mismo narrador. Si eso es así igual no hay diferencia entre si la pregunta la formula él u otro. Él es todo lo que hay, y si se puede decir un cuerpo igual también se puede decir un interlocutor con sólo plantear sus preguntas.

Estoy escribiendo “decir” en cursiva porque este uso de “decir”, que acepta a cuerpos y lugares como objeto, es claramente agramatical; de hecho, Greenlaw parafrasea

Say a body. Where none.

como

I’ll say there’s a body (where there isn’t one).

Creo que esto es un error. La agramaticalidad del uso de Beckett está, por así decirlo, cargada metafísicamente. Está hablando, creo yo, de creación por la palabra, como el Verbo que se hizo carne. Bueno, lo del verbo y la carne es un lugar común, no creo que sea muy osado suponer que Beckett hace un guiño al Génesis en esto. En cambio, la paráfrasis de Greenlaw nos muestra al narrador mintiendo sobre lo que realmente existe (diré que hay un cuerpo donde no lo hay). Ése no puede ser el sentido correcto.

Hala, hasta aquí. Ya seguiré otro día.